The Floors of Hades
by Son of Jason
Summary: People always call me the bad guy. They say that I deserved what happened to me. But have you ever stopped to think and wonder if that's true? What if I was the victim all along? What would you do then? Would you still call me the villain, or would you feel sorry for me? I never meant to hurt them. I never meant to hurt anyone. Can't you see what I've done to prove it to you?
1. When Life Gives You Lemons

_**The Floors of Hades**_

 **Chapter One: "When Life Gives You Lemons"**

A wise man once told me that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Now I'm sure all of you have heard the same crap, but he didn't just leave it at that. Good old Damian, he told me that not all of the lemons are always ripe. No, sometimes they grow in the dirtiest slums this world has to offer, and that's where the true talent is.

You see, I wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. But don't think that made me the bad apple of the bunch. No, I was one of the kindest kids you could talk to on that rusted old playground by the old school building. The other kids were the trouble makers. They would come around, and draw on the swing-sets and slides. They'd go to the youngest kid, and demand for their money unless they would like to lose their first few teeth. Me? I would just watch. Wouldn't hurt anybody, wouldn't help anyone either, but I just watched.

Damian was like me. He was one of those people who had a familiar face, but one you just couldn't put a finger on. His bright red hair gave an illusion of a welcoming bonfire, and his friendly brown eyes gave him his strong, proud aura. His nose always made him look as if he were sick, as it was a slight pink in tone, but he was one of the healthiest people I ever knew.

Our first encounter seemed to be fated. You see, one of the kids saw me playing by the slide one day, and decided to pay me a little visit. It didn't really hurt, but I faked the pain. Best to give him what he wanted so he'd leave me alone. As I cried crocodile tears, I realized the kid had stopped kicking me. I looked up, and there was Damian, slapping the kid senseless. When he finally let the poor kid stumble away, he turned to me, and held out his hand. I took it, shivering.

"Why'd you help me?" I asked him. "It didn't hurt."

"I know." He told me. "Just looked like you could use a friend."

From then on, we were inseparable. I told him everything. About my Mom and Dad, who thought of me worse than garbage. Of my late dog, Walter, who was my only solace in that Hell of a home. I even told him about the box of matches under my bed, and my plans to burn my house to the ground just so I wouldn't have to see Mom or Dad again. He listened, and he nodded.

His first gift to me was given a month after we met. While it's true I had terrible grades in school, Damian soon found that I had other, more useful talents. After one particularly violent argument with Dad, I found myself locked outside for the night. Damian was there, and he handed me a bar of iron. It felt so natural, placing the bar between the door and its frame. There was barely a sound as I opened the door by force. Damian urged me inside, and we wandered through the house. He told me to grab my matches.

I hated them more than anything in the world. Still, I couldn't help but to cry when Damian killed them. I had never seen something so horrific. As I watched him, I swore to myself I would never stoop that low. No matter how bad a person was, they didn't deserve that.

We burned the house to destroy the evidence. Damian took me to a place near the park, a small little camp under a bridge. He said that I could stay there. He didn't say the place was his, but he didn't say it belonged to anyone else either. All I knew at the time was that it was a safe place, and that Damian would be close.

I loved the next gift even more than the last. That Christmas, Damian came back with a friend. A golden retriever. The pup ran towards me through the snow, and started licking my face once he reached me. I laughed and cried, overcome with joy and grief. Damian told me his name was Walter. Never had I been more grateful for having Damian as my friend.

Walter and I would go hunting sometimes. It was in his blood to kill, after all. Damian brought me food sometimes, but only enough to last the day. I couldn't snack on anything, or else I would run out.

Whenever Walter caught something, we'd take it back to our camp under the bridge. I'd take the iron bar Damian gave me, and I'd skin our catch with the sharpest end. It would take a while to cook, but it always tasted amazing. I would never know a better companion.

The one-year anniversary of our meeting was when Damian started to ask something in return of me. Life in the camp was much better than when I was with Mom and Dad. I didn't see the bullies, Mom and Dad were gone, and I didn't have to go to school, so I spent a lot more time with Damian. But, it was pretty boring. Damian knew exactly what I could do.

Technically, it wasn't my first time breaking into a house. But did it count if you broke into your own house? I don't know, but this is the first time I ever used those skills Damian had seen in me all those months ago. And for my first time, Damian said I did pretty well on my own.

The house was empty. The family had decided to take a vacation, Damian told me. My only instructions were to take whatever looked like a lot of money. I took all of the sparkly things. The jewelry, the silverware, the china. It all fit nicely in the sack Damian had lent me. I left behind some of the things I knew was expensive, but was too big for me to carry. The television and home computer were among these items. Even though there was no chance of getting caught by the owners, it still thrilled me, enthralled me. I just had to do this again. Right at the start, I was hooked.

Damian took what I stole, and went to take it to someone else. He returned later with the amount it was all worth in cash. He gave it all to me, praising my work. He didn't even take a single penny for himself. We would do this many times over the next several years, until Damian moved on. He said I could finally go out and do this by myself, make my own way to the top. Make sure that everyone knew my name. And I guess I'm starting with you.

My name is Tim Denson, and this is my story.


	2. Patience Is a Virtue

**Chapter Two: "Patience Is a Virtue"**

I was always good at cleaning up after myself. I always wore gloves, to make sure my fingerprints couldn't be found on anything. I also covered my crowbar in blood. Not human blood, mind you. I had tons of leftovers from hunting with Walter. Before going out, I'd put on a fresh coat to mask the DNA I had accumulated on that thing over the years. Sure, it was gross at first. But what's a little bit of blood over a jail sentence?

By the way, I'm not living under a bridge anymore. No, I had moved out of there long ago. My new apartment wasn't too fancy. Just needed to keep me and Walter alive. If I remember correctly, the place was called Russel's Crossing. Just a small complex in a much bigger city. The folks that lived next door usually kept to themselves. They had a baby to take care of, so why worry themselves with others? Anyways, I wasn't bothered much by anybody.

They say that patience is a virtue. I wish I'd listened to those people. You see, everything went wrong the moment I got impatient. The thrill enthralled me once more, and set me off at the worst possible moment. Like a prank intended to be funny that kills everyone in the end.

I thought they were gone. I had seen their car pull out of the driveway. Their bags were in the trunk, their door was locked, their windows were covered. Even their garage had been sealed tight. I thought that such measure of security could only mean they were guarding a priceless treasure. Well, I was right. But the treasure wasn't exactly what I had thought it to be.

It took a mere minute to get in. If I wanted to be quiet, it would've taken much longer, but curiosity got the best of me. I had to know what was in here. Whatever was in this house would change my life forever, I had thought. Oh, if only I knew just how right I was.

I took the normal things. But this house had a few extra exquisite items. Portable gaming systems, vases, paintings. It had it all. I greedily stuffed everything I could into a bag, and made my way to the kitchen. I always checked if there was any dog food for Walter. It'd save me a few bucks later on. As I rummaged through the pantries, I failed to notice the footsteps approaching me. They deftly made their way to the door, and peered in at me.

The screams were that of a banshee. At first, I only thought the noise as an alarm. In my confusion, I picked up my bar, and swung wildly. The noises stopped instantaneously, only to be replaced with a dull thud. My blood ran cold.

Her blood fell like tears down both sides of her face. Her soft brown hair stuck to her drenched forehead. The color in her eyes drained, leaving behind an empty gray. Her bright pink pajamas, which moments before rose and fell in sync with her breathing, stopped moving. Shaking, I took off my glove. I brought my pointer and middle fingers up to her throat. There was nothing.

Grief overtook me. My oath, in which I had sworn never to harm another such as Damian had to my parents, was broken. I dropped everything. The games, the paintings, the vases, the entire bag. I did not deserve to take from this girl more than I already had. Grief was soon usurped by terror, and I fled into the night. My sin came with me, whispering praise into my ears.

* * *

When at last I was home, it had still not occurred to me what the true gravity of the situation was. I had taken off my glove, and touched her neck. Forensics would surely turn a light upon my hideous guise of a regular citizen. I had taken a life. Was my own life worth anything at all anymore?

Contemplating, I absentmindedly turned on my television set. I always had the channel set to the news, in case I had somehow been discovered. Of course, the talk of the town was the recent murder of a young child. I only half-listened, wanting one piece of information from the broadcast. And there it was. Gretchen. Her name was Gretchen.

Walter trotted over to me, and set his head upon my lap. Still shaking, with Gretchen's blood still upon my fingertips, I pet Walter. And I wondered what uncertain future fate had in store for us.


	3. A Wild Goose Chase

**Chapter Three: "A Wild Goose Chase"**

It was just another day at the precinct. I was sitting down, going through the piles of papers that littered my desk. Many of them were suspects of cases I was not a part of. My job was just to keep an eye out so I can give credit to the detectives that already took these cases up. I was itching for a case of my own. It was a longing I had held for quite some time, and one I thought would never be recognized by my superiors. However, I had to push these imprecise feelings aside, as one of my superiors seemingly had the intention to fulfill my hopes.

"Commissioner Hunter, to what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked politely, finding it strange he would wish to speak to me. Usually you only spoke to Commissioner Hunter if you had done something wrong. I was fairly certain I had followed our code to the letter.

"A slaughter, Fallon!" Commissioner Hunter said in outrage. He threw a file onto my desk, scattering my work everywhere.

"Detective Fallon, sir." I politely corrected him, holding my tongue on the subject of my scattered work.

"Don't you give me lip!" Commissioner Hunter warned, narrowing his eyes. "Do you know why I'm here, Fallon?"

I gulped. His voice was less than welcoming and friendly. In fact, he had a hint of hostility in his tone. Deciding not to get on his nerve more than I already had, I replied quickly, but clearly.

"No, sir." I said. Commissioner Hunter paused for a moment, then told me what I had been waiting to hear.

"I'm assigning you this case. But only because we're stretched thin as it is!" He then took a moment to wave his porky finger in my face. "Don't you get the idea I'm doing this because I like you, Fallon!"

"Never, sir. Thank you." I said, containing my excitement. "What are the details?"

"Victim is a little girl. She was five." Commissioner Hunter said, scowling. It was obvious to me that this particular case disgusted him. Maybe that was why he gave it to me. "Some fingerprints were found at the scene of the crime. We put them through the database, and they seem to match those of Tim Denson."

"What do we have on Mr. Denson?" I asked. "What's his record?"

"His record's clean." Commissioner Hunter said. "We only have his prints from an old case of child neglect. Before we could remove him from the house, the place burned down. Then he disappeared for a bit. It took a bit of digging, but apparently Tim's staying at this apartment in Russel's Crossing. The address is in the file."

"Sir, do you think the fire you mentioned was caused by Denson?" I asked, curious.

"It's a possibility. We were never able to rule out arson in that case." He explained. "If you can find anything, we could add that to his list of charges."

"I'll see what I can do." I said, opening the file, and studying the contents hungrily.

* * *

"Barnesville Police Department!" I shouted, knocking on the door. I listened for any movement inside the apartment, but there was no sound to hear.

"Stuart?" A familiar voice asked. I turned to door next to the one I was mercilessly beating, and saw one of my old friends.

"Hello, Daisha." I said, welcoming her with a smile. "How long has it been?"

"Since school ended." Daisha answered. "How have you been?"

"Alright." I said. "I'm on a case right now. You wouldn't happen to know the man who lives here, would you?"

"No, I've been pretty busy lately. I don't know many of the neighbors." She told me. "But I think I saw him leave with his dog a while ago. Why? What did he do?"

As I started to answer her, an infant's cry rang out. Daisha looked at me apologetically.

"Sorry, I've got to go." She said.

"You have a child?" I asked.

"Yeah, a son." She said, starting to enter her own apartment. "You'll have to come visit sometime so you can meet him!"

"Yes, perhaps later." I told her, nodding slightly. Once she had closed the door, I began rummaging through my files that I had brought with me.

Soon, I found the warrant. I had suspected that Denson might not be home, so I had procured myself a way to lawfully search through his things while he was away. Seeing as knocking would be useless, I turned the knob, which surprisingly turned with my hand. Why did he not lock his door?

Regardless of the elusive answer to my unspoken question, I entered the sty that was Denson's home. Upon first glance, any person would have thought Denson a hoarder. But as I examined the clutter closer, I realized there indeed was a method to this madness. These things were parts of Denson's various collections. Items of similar properties were placed next to each other, though this placement was rather untidy.

I found nothing in the living room. Everything seemed to have been obtained legally, though I was thoroughly tempted to call a health inspector. It was not until I found the kitchen that I found something rather interesting. A note, neatly folded, placed on the center of the table. What was something so seemingly formal in such an informal place such as this?

I picked up the note, and carefully unfolded it. It was handwritten, and there was no greeting. It was as if the note was intended for whoever stumbled upon it. As I read, I realized this was indeed the case, and a smile grew upon my lips. The three brilliant rings coming from my phone as I called the station gave me a sense of accomplishment. Finally, I was doing the job I loved.

"I've got a confession letter." I spoke when my call was answered. "From what I'm reading, we can charge Denson with at least three counts of murder of the first degree, arson, and multiple cases of petty theft."

" _Good_." Commissioner Hunter's voice was slightly distorted. " _Anything else?_ "

"Looks like Denson at least shows regret." I explained. "He ended the letter saying that he's leaving all of his personal property to the family of Gretchen Robinson in the hopes that he can give back more than he stole."

" _Like that could even compare to a life!_ " Commissioner Hunter scoffed. " _I'll tell the family. That it?_ "

"For now." I said. "But you'll have to excuse me, Commissioner. I have a runner to catch." And thus, I ended the call. Never had I felt more alive.

* * *

It was cold. I took nothing with me except the clothes on my back, my crowbar, and Walter. I hoped that someone would find my letter soon, but at the same time I was terrified of the thought. I wanted to be found, for I deserved whatever punishment they could throw at me, but at the same time I could not bring myself to giving up. I was scared of what they would do, even if I deserved every second of it.

I didn't even realize where I was going. When I finally came to a stop and looked around me, I noticed all too familiar surroundings. I was at the old school building, but it no longer looked old. Renovations had taken place. The walls were new, the paint was fresh, even the empty playground looked nicer. I decided to take a look at the sign that hung from the two posts out front.

"Barnesville Catholic Church." I whispered to myself. I looked at the oaken doors, then at the crowbar in my hands.

Soon, I had Walter tied up by the sign. I had used my crowbar as a post, and then tied Walter's leash around it. Simple enough. I would only be a few minutes.

I walked through hurriedly, ignoring those that chose to stare at me. Maybe they'd all seen my face on the evening news, and they would call the cops as soon as I left. I couldn't care less if they did or not, but I did do my best to keep my head down.

I stumbled into the booth as soon as it was open, and fell to my knees. For a moment, I lost my courage. My voice was caught in my throat. But eventually, I managed to get the first words out.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was a lifetime ago."


	4. Into the Storm

**Chapter Four: "Into the Storm"**

How long had I been on the run? I'd lost count. Could be days or weeks. I guess it didn't really matter. Well, except for the fact that Walter and I were starving.

I wasn't in town anymore. I'd made it to the mountains. I could pretty much say I wasn't going to be found. But what now? There was no game to hunt, no berries to pick. It was as if somebody had bled this place dry decades before we arrived.

And it was totally unfair.

Poor Walter. I dragged him into this. He could've been part of the girl's family if I'd just left him at the apartment. Then he wouldn't be hungry, cold, or exhausted.

Oh yeah. Almost forgot to mention that my little offering was accepted. The family took my apartment, sold most of it, swapped out some of my stuff for their old junk, and sold that junk. It was all going towards her funeral and some new home security.

Money well spent, in my opinion.

Anyways, I spent a few days up in the mountains without food. Shelter was easy to find. There were caves everywhere. And if I couldn't find a cave, I could easily make a small tent out of some branches and leaves.

Cars roared past on the highway below. Once or twice, police sirens signaled the start of a car chase or something big going on in the city. I never found myself willing to sleep after hearing the first siren.

I didn't know what to do. Considering my options, it was either I stayed up here and starved, or I turn myself in and get executed or something.

Both options weren't too appealing to me.

I voiced my concerns to Walter. Yeah, I know he's just a dog. I know he won't respond or particularly understand me. But I needed something to vent on. And Walter was there for me. He's always been there for me.

It was my last day in the mountains, but I didn't know it then. But that's when I came across the house. A little farm, a fair distance away from the highway. I couldn't see any cars. Either there wasn't anybody home, or they didn't have cars.

At the moment, I didn't really care.

I walked straight up to the door, and placed my crowbar into the door-frame. Then I froze. No, this is exactly what got me into this mess. I can't do this again. Not after last time. I pulled my crowbar out, and stared at the house. I really wanted to be inside. There had to be some kind of food.

But I just couldn't bring myself to do it.

Walter whined at my feet.

"Sorry, buddy." I said, looking down at him. "I can't."

Back into the forest we went. I kept an eye out for any type of food, but there was none to be found. The bushes were bare, the air was devoid of noise, and the woods were outright desolate. I wasn't sure I could make it much longer.

I wasn't sure if Walter could either.

We went to rest by a small creek, a good source of water. I lay down against a tree, and watch the water. Good old dihydrogen monoxide. At least I wouldn't die of dehydration in the near future.

Walter weakly trotted over, and laid his head on my leg. Poor guy. I didn't even think about bringing his kibble. I knew he was in pain. I could see it in his eyes. I wanted to help him so badly. I wanted to run into town and break into the nearest pet store. I wanted to take all the bags and cans of dog food I could carry and make a break for it.

But there wasn't enough time.

"I'm sorry, pal." I told him. My voice was soft and hollow. "I know you're hungry. I am too. I promise, the first thing we find is yours, okay? Just stay with me."

Walter blinked slowly. Once. Twice. Then he closed his eyes. And just like that, he was gone.

Now I've saved you all from some ghastly scenes a few times, but not this time. I can lessen the deaths of my abusive parents. I can pass over my slaughtering of a little girl. But not Walter. He meant too much to me for me to just gloss over what happened to him.

He'd always bring me food when I was a kid. Now was his final delivery.

I always heard rumors that Chinese food was made of dogs. I don't understand how Chinese people do it. Maybe it's because they didn't have a bond with the dogs? Maybe they try to imagine it's something else?

Either way, eating Walter was not easy.

I was starving. He was dead. It was either I used his death to live or I died with him. I don't know about you, but death is not an appealing subject for me.

I built a fire from fallen branches and leaves. It was easy to spark with just my crowbar and a small rock. I waited a while to make sure the fire was strong enough to last without my tending to it. Then, I faced him.

He was so peaceful. It was almost like he was sleeping. But his heart had stopped. He was gone. I almost couldn't believe it. But there he was, and he was dead. I whispered a silent prayer for Walter, and brought my crowbar to his stomach.

His guts came spilling out. He barely had any meat on him, but I put aside what I could and continued scavenging his corpse. I had to take some of his organs. I didn't even know if they were safe to eat, but food is food. If I died with it, I would have died without it anyways.

I scraped him clean. My crowbar, my hands, my coat, everything was drenched in blood. I was shaking horribly. It was too late to stop. I made a makeshift spit and skewered the meat before putting it above the fire.

While Walter cooked, I dug his grave. With my bare hands, I scratched at the dirt and moved it aside. My hands hurt. They were terribly scratched, and most likely those cuts would get infected, but I could worry about that later.

Soon, I had a hole large enough for his hollowed corpse. Gently, I laid my best friend into the grave, and covered him. I was glad his eyes were closed. I don't know what I would've done if they weren't.

The first bite was the worst. It wasn't the taste, no it wasn't the taste at all. No, it was the thought. The thought that this was Walter made me gag. I forced the disgusting feeling down, and continued eating.

The worst part?

The squirrel. As soon as I finished the last piece of Walter, the squirrel ran down from a tree and started to sniff around Walter's grave. My stomach churned. All this time, there was a squirrel.

Rage filled me. I forgot the meaning of mercy. Soon, the squirrel was flatter than roadkill. I didn't even want the meat. I threw it in the creek.

Nearby, I found a stick. It was large enough for the purpose I wanted it to serve. I carved his name into it. I carved his name, and put it at the head of his grave.

"Goodbye, Walter." I choked. I looked down at my crowbar. I dropped it. Taking a child was one thing. I didn't even know her. But now this thing had killed the only living thing I'd had for company in years. I refused to keep it any longer.

And that's when the sound of crinkling leaves made me spring to my feet.

* * *

"What did you see again, Mr. Dolby?" I asked the old man. He wore a simple plaid shirt, and jeans. His grizzly hair and beard were almost the color of pure silver. His icy blue eyes were filled with rage.

"That Jim Henson you've been looking for!" He shouted, shaking a fist.

"Do you mean Tim Denson?" I asked.

"Whatever his name was." Mr. Dolby grunted. "He tried breaking in, but then he ran into the woods!"

"How long ago?" I asked, suppressing my urge to sprint into the forest at that moment.

"Not even an hour." Mr. Dolby stated, making my heart skip a beat. I was close to catching him.

"I will alert my superiors and search the area." I promised. "Thank you, Mr. Dolby."

"Now hold on a second!" Mr. Dolby said, making me internally groan. "I don't want no more of you up here! This is private property! This here Jim is a trespasser! I'm coming with you, and if he tries anything funny, I have a rake out in the back to kill snakes with. He's just another varmint around here."

"You can come with me, but I will not hesitate to use force if you harm my suspect." I warned. "Just let me alert my superiors."

"I'll fetch the rake." Mr. Dolby said, as if he hadn't heard my warning.

"Commissioner Hunter, I've found a witness who has placed Denson on their property." I spoke into my walkie-talkie. "I'm in hot pursuit."

" _Wait at your location, Fallon._ " The Commissioner's voice came back through. " _He's armed and dangerous. I'm dispatching patrols to your location._ "

"With all due respect, sir," I said, my tone venomous, "I am perfectly capable of taking Denson. He was last seen less than an hour ago. If I wait, he'll slip away. Goodbye, sir."

" _Dammit Fall-_ " Commissioner Hunter's curse was cut off when I hung up.

Mr. Dolby then came limping over to me.

"There's a fire." He said. I smiled.

* * *

I should've known there was someone in the farm. An old man and a young officer were standing just feet away, armed with a rake and a pistol respectively.

The officer seemed excited. The twinkle in his sea-green eyes told me that much. His black hair was neatly combed back, and his uniform was perfectly ironed. Obviously, he took delight in his job. That, or today was laundry day. I didn't really care.

"Tim Denson." The officer announced, his wicked grin ever present. "You have the right to remain silent."


	5. Into the Fire

**Chapter Five: "Into the Fire"**

Victory was within my grasp. It was so close, I could've almost reached out and taken it. However, fate is cruel, and you have to play with hands dealt.

I can't explain what I felt as I stared into Denson's eyes. Accomplishment? Satisfaction? Joy? Loathing?

I honestly couldn't tell you if I wanted to.

What I can tell you is that Denson was covered in blood, standing above a fresh grave. The recently disturbed ground was impossible to miss. Especially with the stick where a headstone would usually be placed.

He looked better than I had originally expected. Sure, his hands were pretty gnarled, but otherwise he seemed just fine. He had some stubble from going without a razor for so long, he had some stress lines on his forehead, and his hair was a mess, but otherwise he looked like he was just out for a stroll. Well, if you took away his bloody shirt, that is. Though he easily could've covered it with his large coat.

"Mr. Dolby, you can return to your residence." I said to the farmer. "I can take this from here."

"So he sold me out?" Denson asked after Mr. Dolby had departed. "You know; I just couldn't find it in my heart to rob him."

"Yet you found the strength to slaughter an innocent girl." I sneered. "Come along peacefully, Tim. You don't want more blood on your hands, do you?"

Denson was silent for a moment. Wordlessly, he held out his hands. I quickly and carefully handcuffed the criminal, and made him walk ahead of me. All the while, my pistol was pressed into his back.

Yeah, that wasn't proper conduct. Who cares? I don't. I apprehended a killer. It was only for my own safety.

Lot of good it did.

As I pushed him into the back seat of the car, it started to rain. I'd heard a severe storm was incoming, but I'd investigated my lead anyway. Deciding to try and avoid the storm, I made haste to fasten my seatbelt before driving off.

The city wasn't too far away. Still, it was a thirty-minute drive. I started to become anxious. No, I would not let the weather dampen my spirits or delay my transport! I was simply overreacting.

Some people say the best action is no action. Well, in some cases that's true. But in my case, the best action would've been overreaction.

My nerves calmed themselves when we entered the city. We had just crossed the underpass when it happened.

 _BOOM!_

My brain didn't have enough time to register what was going on. I saw a flash of lightning just ahead, and swerved to avoid it. After that, I lost all control of the vehicle.

Sometimes I wish it was the crash that killed me.

* * *

The officer was down. I groggily sat up, staring at him through the screen window. He was slumped against the steering wheel, barely conscious. Luckily for me, the door keeping me locked in the back had been broken open in the crash.

I climbed out, straining against the cuffs. Unluckily for me, they didn't break in the crash. I made my way over to the driver's door, and somehow managed to force it open. The keys were on the officer's belt, though I couldn't reach them with the way he was positioned.

So I threw him out of the cruiser.

He hit the road with a satisfying grunt. I knelt down and grabbed the keys and quickly undid my bindings. I rubbed my wrists once they were free. The cuffs had been a little too tight for my liking.

I grabbed his gun, and threw it as far as could. At the moment, I was severely discombobulated, so I only managed to throw it to the edge of a gutter. I didn't expect him to come to any time soon, though if he did I didn't want him to have a gun on him.

I could hear sirens in the distance. I guessed someone had heard the crash and called an ambulance. Or maybe the police. Either way, I was out of there.

But just when I thought I was in the clear, the officer seemed to forget about being knocked out.

"Stop!" He shouted. He limped towards me.

And that's when I realized night sticks were a thing.

He tried to swing, but I caught his arm at the last minute. However, there was enough force in the swing to send us both tumbling down. The night stick rolled from his hand. So now he was unarmed, but that didn't make him any less intimidating.

Especially with his hands wringing my throat.

I grasped weakly at his neck, hoping to get a good grip to fight back. I just couldn't do it. I was quickly running out of air. My eyes darted around, hoping for something-anything- to save me.

And then I saw it. The gun was just a little bit away. If I could just reach for it without him noticing, I might be able to fight back.

" _You don't want more blood on your hands, do you?_ "

I stared him in the eyes. His cold, icy eyes. Throughout all of this, he was smiling. He was _enjoying_ this.

He was even more of a psycho than I was.

I made my choice. My hand reached out for the gun. For a second, I frantically grasped at the pistol, unable to get a grip on it. But then, my fingers latched onto the edge, and I brought the pistol to the side of the officer's head.

 _BANG!_

Despite the smoking crater in the flesh of his temple, the officer was still smiling. As if death wasn't even enough to crush his euphoria. I breathed heavily for a few seconds, and pushed him off of me. I ripped the badge off of his corpse, and read the name.

"Fallon, huh?" I huffed. I unsteadily stood. The sirens were much louder now. I limped over to a nearby alley. Before I turned the corner, I looked behind me to see a police cruiser stop at Fallon's corpse.

As the officers opened their doors, I crept into the alley.

I didn't have much time. The officers would find me soon if I didn't hide. I kept walking down the alley, only stopping when I reached a fire exit.

On the walls around the escape were words, seemingly written in blood.

"TIM, GO AWAY." The words were in a disturbingly familiar handwriting.

"Damian?" I jumped when the street sign I put my hand on creaked. I looked up at the sign, only to have my skin crawl.

"Slaughter Me Street." The sign read.

What was this place?

Realization hit me. How long had I been standing there? Surely the officers must be closing in! I hurriedly started to climb the fire escape, hoping that maybe Damian was nearby. I reached the roof, and peered over the edge. One of the officers was kneeling by Fallon's corpse, his face hidden from my view. The other was pacing around, loudly cursing.

Then the other officer turned around, and my heart stopped. He was staring straight at me, which in my situation was scary enough, but the last person I expected him to be was Damian. Yet there he was. He said nothing, but he shook his head and turned back to further inspect Fallon's corpse.

My heart was pounding. My brain was refusing to cooperate. Damian was helping the police look for me?! Damian was an officer?! I began to back up, and I barely even noticed that I was walking on glass until it broke beneath my feet.

And I fell.

* * *

I took one more puff from my cigarette before dropping it on Tim. I told him not to go on the fire escape. Now he was dead. Children really need to learn to listen.

"Do you have no respect for the dead?" Commissioner Hunter snarled. I smiled in his face.

"Fallon is dead because of this man." I said. "A little girl is dead because of this man. Why should I respect the corpse of someone who didn't even respect the living?"

"Because we still have to set up a crime scene!" Hunter argued.

"Fine. I'll keep myself from desecrating his precious corpse." I replied. "Now, I believe the forensics have arrived. Go welcome them, won't you Commissioner?"

Sure enough, as soon as I finished speaking, a car door slamming shut signaled the arrival of forensics. Hunter scowled at me before walking away.

I knelt down next to Tim's corpse.

"You danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight." I said slowly. For a second, my eyes changed back to their normal look, but I quickly hid them again. "You just didn't play your cards right."

I picked up my discarded cigarette. Some of the ashes fell back onto him.

"Goodbye, Tim." I said, smiling. "It was a pleasure dealing with you. Though I wish you'd killed Hunter as well. It just means more work for me that you didn't."

* * *

Hell wasn't like the stories. First of all, they didn't mention the transformation from human to goat demon. They also didn't mention the endless maze of hallways.

Or that you are grouped with people you know.

"So your name was Fallon?" The pink goat demon known as Greeter asked. "Well how about we call you Follower? Sound close enough?"

"Why do I need a new name?" I asked her. She giggled.

"Because you're not you anymore, silly!" She said as if it were obvious. Well, it kind of was with my new blue-furred goat body. "Boss told me that we have to give ourselves new names! They'll go with how we get our revenge!"

"Revenge?" I asked, curious.

"Yeah!" Greeter said enthusiastically. "Boss told me that once all of us were here, we could get revenge on Tim! I'm called Greeter, because I'm going to jump at him from around corners and greet him with a nice dismemberment!"

"What about him?" I asked, pointing at the yellow gargoyle. He stared at me, not blinking once.

"He doesn't speak much." Greeter told me. "Boss calls him Waiter. Said Tim did something to his body after he died."

"Who's the boss you keep talking about?" For once, Greeter was not so eager to answer.

"The less said about The Nightmare, the better." She said quietly. "He gets angry when we talk about him behind his back."

"So I'm Follower." I said slowly. "Does that mean I need to follow Tim down here forever hoping I can get close enough to kill him?"

"Yep!" Greeter exclaimed. "Waiter's a bit more like me. The Nightmare said that he'll wait for Tim behind corners, and if Tim doesn't look at him, he'll attack!"

"So basically, we follow, we greet, we wait, and repeat?" I asked. Greeter nodded. I sighed. This was going to a long afterlife.

* * *

My ankle felt like it was broken. I was barely able to stand up. There was a flashlight at my feet. I picked it up, and shined it around. To my right, there was a pool of blood on the wall. Up ahead was a door. On the door was a bloody handprint. Above the door were words written in blood, like the ones from the alley.

"SALVATION AWAITS."

There was a little too much blood for my taste.

But on the other hand, salvation sounded like just what I needed. I limped forward, my ankle screaming in agony. I pushed the door open.

My hand matched perfectly with the print stained on the door.


End file.
